


we snap together

by birdjay



Series: like magnets [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Everyone Is Alive, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdjay/pseuds/birdjay
Summary: “Captain Rogers?” A doctor says, yanking Steve’s attention away from Sam. He turns, winces, but meets the woman’s eyes. She stares at him with friendly brown eyes before saying in a stern, professional voice, “You were clinically dead for five minutes before we were able to restart your heart. We thought we lost you.”“Y-you didn’t,” Steve says, in a rough, dry voice.“Thankfully,” the doctor says, with a smile. “You are extremely lucky to be alive. We’re almost certain that without the serum, you’d, well, you’d be dead.”He nods, as shallowly as he can. He’s well aware of what the serum has done for him this go around. That and having an actual conversation with God. That probably helped. Unless that had all been a figment of his imagination. Steve closesd his eyes at the thought.That had been real.He’d felt his fist connect with the being’s jaw.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: like magnets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612435
Comments: 45
Kudos: 292





	we snap together

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a work in progress for MONTHS. Finally, finally, I managed to write an ending. I didn't like how I left the first fic off, I thought I could write them a true happy ending, so that's what this is. Why I wrote a sequel to my least popular fic is still beyond me, but here you go.
> 
> This was beta'd by the lovely [deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium), to whom I owe a million hugs or something.

Steve wakes in a hospital bed, covered in wires and tubes. The room is slightly blurry at the edges until he blinks a few times, and then everything falls into focus with the harsh realities of fluorescent lights. He’s in the tower -- the only place with doctors who know enough about his particular kind of healing to treat him. 

That means he came back.

The Creator let him come back.

Steve sucks in a huge, harsh breath and immediately regrets it. Everything hurts. Every goddamn piece of his anatomy, but especially his chest. It feels as if he’s broken all his ribs. All the bones above his waist, actually. How had he died, exactly? Had something fallen on him, and crushed him to death?

Alarms blare to the left of his head, beeping and shrieking shrilly out into the otherwise silent room. 

People come running around the corner, doctors whipping off stethoscopes, nurses holding syringes and clipboards. Someone rushes to the machines and shuts off the alarm. The last person to enter the room is Sam. He stands to the very back, watching the circus unfold. Steve keeps his eyes on him for as long as possible, holding out hope that if Sam is here, that means everyone else made it out okay, too.

“Captain Rogers?” A doctor says, yanking Steve’s attention away from Sam. He turns, winces, but meets the woman’s eyes. She stares at him with friendly brown eyes before saying in a stern, professional voice, “You were clinically dead for five minutes before we were able to restart your heart. We thought we lost you.”

“Y-you didn’t,” Steve says, in a rough, dry voice. 

“Thankfully,” the doctor says, with a smile. “You are extremely lucky to be alive. We’re almost certain that without the serum, you’d, well, you’d be dead.” 

He nods, as shallowly as he can. He’s well aware of what the serum has done for him this go around. That and having an actual conversation with God. That probably helped. Unless that had all been a figment of his imagination. Steve closesd his eyes at the thought. 

That had been real. 

He’d felt his fist connect with the being’s jaw.

“I’m Doctor Ramírez. I’ll be in charge of your recovery.”

“N-nice to meet you, doc,” Steve says, breathing heavily. Every minute movement hurts. It’s sharp, piercing, unrelenting pain no matter what. A twitch of an eyelid, a breath, clearing his throat. He waits a second, to gather up his courage to talk through the pain, and then asks, “How bad am I?”

“You’ve broken almost all your ribs -- one punctured your right lung. Your collarbone on the right side is shattered, and your left arm was quite severely fractured. Mr. Wilson has told me that you were crushed by an alien spacecraft,” Dr. Ramírez says, as if this is all very common place. Steve appreciates not being treated like a national icon. “You should make a full recovery, provided you let your body actually recover.”

Steve narrows his eyes at her. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re benched for the foreseeable future. Your surgeries went well, no complications. I’m going to up your pain meds a little,” she says, poking at the machine by his head. There are soft beeps, and then silence as she turns back to him. Dr. Ramírez points at him and adds, “You’re to keep that oxygen line in, please. You can have water, liquid foods. Nothing solid yet.”

Steve nods his understanding, and as he does, the pain meds start to hit. Warmth seeps through his veins, pooling in his stomach. The pain whittles down to almost nothing a beat later, a faint reminder of what had been. “Thank you,” he murmurs, finally able to really focus on the doctor’s face. The idea of being benched doesn’t even faze him right now. Too many things are broken, too many things hurt.

“You’re welcome. Try to rest now, okay?” Dr. Ramírez says, patting him gently on the knee. “You know the drill, press the red button if you need anything.” Steve nods again, and she and her team of nurses leave the way they came.

As soon as they clear the room, Sam moves forward, dragging an uncomfortable-looking chair with him. It scrapes against the linoleum floor with an ugly metallic screech. He sets the chair by Steve’s bed, and falls into it, looking exhausted. 

“You scared the hell out of us, man,” Sam says, setting his elbows on his knees. He leans forward onto them, holding his chin in one hand. Sam sighs, a huge thing that seems to deflate him while Steve watches.

“Is everyone okay? Where’s Bucky, where’s Nat?” Steve says, slower than he’d like. The meds force everything to move glacially -- words come out of his mouth like they’re covered in molasses. 

Sam holds one hand out to slow him down. He takes another breath, and then starts on Steve’s questions. “Everyone’s mostly fine. Minor injuries, really. Nat broke her wrist, Tony got a concussion. Bucky’s in your apartment a few floors up -- he’s been next to you for a full three days waiting for you to wake up. I made him go sleep. I’ll go get him soon,” Sam says, voice soft with exhaustion. “Nat’s being babied by Clint, so you can guess how well that’s going. She’s been around, too. She’d just gone to eat a few minutes before you woke up.”

All of that floats through Steve’s brain like smoke. Relief hits him in waves -- his team is okay, Bucky is okay, Bucky is _here_ . He’s fraught with the need to see him, his skin is buzzing with it. But -- “ _Three days!?”_

Sam gives him the most unimpressed look he’s seen in his entire life, and he grew up with Winnie Barnes as a second mom. “Yeah, _Steven_ , three days.” He sighs, and adds, “You had three surgeries. Shuri put you back together as best as she could and then we got you on a plane back here. You’ve been sleeping basically since you got out of your last surgery. Docs said they figure that’s what your body needs to heal.”

Steve gives him an apologetic look. What guilt can seep through his heavily medicated state seems to stick right at the base of his neck. He’s been sleeping for three days while his friends were worried about him. 

He’d been _dead_. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “For making you worry, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you’re okay,” Sam says, running a hand over his face. 

“You sleep at all?” Steve asks, feeling the pain meds try and drag him back under. He fights it. He’s not going to sleep again until he sees Bucky. 

“A little. It’ll be easier now,” Sam admits, with a half-smile. 

“Sorry,” Steve says again, wrinkling his nose. 

Sam waves him off. He yawns behind a hand, and then pulls himself back up to standing. “Hey, I’m gonna go get your grumpier half. You need anything?”

“Water?” Steve asks, blinking as he scours the room for anything resembling a cup. He doesn’t see anything.

“I got you. Might be a minute though, okay?” Sam says. He pats Steve’s knee just like Dr. Ramírez had. Steve appreciates the effort to not touch him in a place that would hurt -- there’s very little qualifying square footage left besides his knee. Sam nods at him, and then starts to go. “I’ll send Bucky down.” Sam pauses just at the door. He turns back with one hand on the frame to say, “And Steve? Thanks for not dying.”

Steve nods at him, waving a hand like it was no big deal. Sam disappears out into the hallway, leaving him alone in a silent room. It’s a little overwhelming at first, thinking about what he’d gone through without being aware of it. Three surgeries. Three days gone to him forever. 

He pokes at his stomach carefully, trying to decide where the incisions are. There’s a nice little sore spot on the left side, so maybe there? Steve’s just starting to slowly peel apart the various layers of blankets, dressings, and hospital gown to see if he can maybe look at the stitches or staples or whatever’s holding him together when Bucky skids into the room.

They stare at each other for a split second, mouths falling open in shock.

Bucky takes a single step forward, grey eyes wide in his face. His hair is piled on top of his head in a messy bun, strings and strands of it flying wildly out of the elastic. A flash of metal shines where one shoulder pokes out of a shirt that Steve vaguely recognizes as his own. No wonder the shoulders are all stretched out. 

“Steve?” Bucky says, in a rough voice. 

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me,” Steve answers, relief washing over him in waves. He’s here, he’s here, _he’s here._

“Oh god,” Bucky says, hurriedly closing the distance between them. He falls into the seat Sam left vacant, and reaches immediately for Steve’s hand, clinging to it like a lost sailor to a raft. Steve squeezes his fingers as hard as he can, which is not very hard, considering that’s his broken arm. Bucky sniffs, eyes a little wet. “Are you…?”

Steve blinks at him. “Am I…?”

“I know you’re not okay, I know that. But...you’re going to _be_ okay, right?” Bucky asks, words coming out a little thick as tears threaten to fall. He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. Logically, Steve knows that the doctor must have told Bucky that he was going to be fine, but he understands Bucky’s need to hear it from his mouth. 

“Yeah, the doc said I should make a full recovery,” Steve says, softly. He pauses, aching with the need to touch more of Bucky. He wants to hold him against him, wants to shield him with his body, wants to keep him safe. But he’s stuck in this hospital bed with a bruised and broken body. There is little he can do other than hold Bucky’s hand. “What about you, Buck, you okay? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Bucky shakes his head immediately, hair wobbling with the movement. “No, no, I’m fine,” but the words come out a little muffled. He stares at Steve for a moment, eyes huge in his face. He sniffs a few more times, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Then without much warning, the floodgates open. Tears silently pour down Bucky’s cheeks, dripping down his neck and jaw to wet the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. “You were _dead_ , Stevie,” Bucky whispers. He wipes at his face, frustrated. “What am I supposed to do if you die?”

“I’m right here, Buck,” Steve says, softly. He squeezes Bucky’s hand again. “I’m right here.”

Bucky drags the chair closer, resting their hands on Steve’s thigh. He leans forward a bit, almost like he wants to drape himself over Steve’s legs but is holding himself back. Steve wants desperately to tell him it's okay. That he can touch him wherever and however he likes. But they’re not quite there. Not yet. Steve still has to tell him…well, everything.

“You weren’t, though,” Bucky whispers back. “You were unconscious. You were bleeding internally, you were _broken_.”

“So I’ve been told,” Steve says, with a small self-deprecating laugh. 

Bucky raises his head and glares at him. The effect is reduced, a little, due to the redness of his face and the tears and snot dripping down his scruff. “It’s not fucking funny, Steve.” He wipes at his face again, making his wrist all wet and shiny with tears. “You were dead and I was just supposed to...what? Move on? Get a new best friend? A new brother?”

Steve sighs, feeling every bit as exhausted and hurt that he actually is. His bones ache. His head is throbbing. “Don’t you think I’d know better than anyone how that feels?” Steve pauses, running his free hand over his mouth. “I...I didn’t know what to do without you when I woke up. I kept turning around, expecting you to be there, but you never were.” 

Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand another time, lightly running his thumb over the back of Bucky’s hand. The skin is soft there, faint freckles dotting his knuckles. Bucky squeezes back. Steve stares at their hands, unable to look Bucky in the eye. 

In a rough, barely there voice, Steve continues, “I had been torn in two, and no one fucking noticed. I was bleeding out, holding my guts in, and no one cared. No one really knew. Everyone just shoved history books and film reels at me and told me welcome to the future, good luck. I was one half of a whole, wandering around lost.” Steve takes a huge shuddering breath. “When I woke up, it had been close to two weeks since I lost you. Two fucking weeks, Buck. To everyone else, it been 70 goddamn years.”

Silence falls between them, no noise other than their rough breathing.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Rogers,” Bucky murmurs. He opens his mouth again, but two figures darken the doorway. They both look over at the same time to see Natasha and Clint, holding green Subway cups with straws. Steve’s stomach does loops -- what had Bucky been about to say?

“Nice to see you conscious,” Natasha says, raising one eyebrow before taking a long, loud slurp from her drink. Something disgustingly purple slides up the straw. She moves into the room, standing on the other side of Steve’s bed. A black cast with one red stripe restrains her right arm. “Sam said you wanted water?”

Steve nods, and Natasha holds out the second cup. He takes it from her with his free hand, and sips carefully at it. The water inside is ice-cold, and feels wonderful sliding down his throat. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he says, resting the cup gently on the top of his thigh. He doesn’t have access to a table, unfortunately. Maybe they’ll bring him one once he gets his first meal of the day, whenever that is. 

“Mhm,” Natasha tones, looking him over carefully. It’s her own way of checking how he’s doing without actually asking. She sips at her own drink before asking, “You gonna live?”

Steve snorts out a little burst of laughter. Pain flares up around his ribs, bright and overwhelming, until he gets his breathing back under control. Bucky’s hand tightens around his own. Once he can speak without wheezing, Steve says, “We hope.”

“Eh, you’ll be fine,” Clint says, with a lopsided grin. He flaps a hand as he adds, “I’ve had way worse.”

Bucky flashes him a look of disbelief, but Steve laughs, a little softer this time. He takes a quick breath and says, “Like that time you fell off that bank’s roof and broke both legs at once?” Steve pauses, thinking. Clint’s had so many injuries it’s hard to keep track. “Or when you tried to rappel off that apartment building and the line broke, and you landed on someone’s car?”

Clint’s face crumples into laughter. “Yeah, or when I ran out of arrows and tried to punch that robot and broke my hand.” He raises his Subway cup in a mock-toast. “To getting back up again.”

Steve manages to raise his own cup, saying, “To modern medicine.” He tilts it towards himself, intending to take a sip, but Bucky throws out a comment that makes him laugh again. 

“You mean: To Abraham Erskine, you lucky asshole,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. Even through his laugh, Steve can tell that Bucky’s deeply uncomfortable, but trying very hard to relax. Steve presses his fingers into his again, trying to radiate that it’s okay without speaking. Bucky flicks his eyes towards Clint, adding, “I don’t know what you got goin’ on, Barton, but I figure you must be pretty lucky, too.”

“Pshaw,” Clint says, flapping a hand towards Bucky.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, believe me, Barnes,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. “Clint manages to hurt himself walking down the stairs.”

In response, Clint gleefully raises his arm and shows off an impressive bruise on the tip of his elbow. 

“How did you...No, never mind,” Steve says, shaking his head. He’d rather not know.

“Bounced of a wall,” Clint says anyway, pleased with himself. 

Steve rolls his eyes, sipping again at his water. After a moment, he looks at Natasha, and asks, “You okay?” Of the two of them, Natasha is more likely to hide hurts, to try and brush off a major wound. 

Natasha shrugs, holding out her casted arm and wiggling it a little. She doesn’t even look fazed by the injury, no extra bruising or scratches anywhere. She simply looks tired. “I’m fine, other than this. I’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Steve gives her a look, but nods. Exhaustion washes over him in thick, syrupy waves. It’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped back off into sleep again. He blinks a few times, trying to regain his will to stay awake. Natasha notices, judging by the way she’s raised her eyebrows at him. Bucky does too, flashing him a concerned look.

“We’ll let you go back to sleep. We’ll stop by later, if that’s okay?” Natasha asks, already turning and nudging Clint towards the door. He goes, hanging by the doorway until Nat joins him. 

“Sure,” Steve says. He’d like to see his whole team, if possible. But that’ll have to wait, considering that staying conscious is becoming rapidly impossible. “Whatever you want. I’ll be here.”

She nods, and drags Clint out into the hallway, still toting their Subway cups. Steve can hear them bicker as they walk away. Once they’re gone, he lets a huge yawn pull at his mouth. His eyes water at the edges.

“You should sleep,” Bucky says, in a soft voice. His thumb rubs over the back of Steve’s hand. 

“But we were talking,” Steve replies, trying not to whine. He is so very tired, but he wants to finish their previous conversation. He wants to know what Bucky was going to say. He wants to tell Bucky what happened to him. He wants to listen to him speak forever.

Bucky smiles at him, one of the private ones reserved only for him. It crinkles his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Me and this chair are real familiar with each other.”

Steve gives him a pitiful look. “Buck.”

“No, I’m not leaving, so don’t even bother asking me to,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. 

“Have you eaten anything today?” Steve asks, in a low voice. He’s exceptionally hungry himself, but he knows better than to ask for food. Doctor Ramírez told him in no uncertain terms that he’s to stick to a liquid diet right now. That and, well, in a few minutes he won’t be awake to actually eat. 

Bucky shrugs, which is answer enough for Steve.

“Bucky -- _please_ go eat something. Or have Sam bring you food. Either way, you gotta eat. Don’t stop taking care of yourself just because you’re worried about me,” Steve says, voice still barely there. He knows Bucky better than he knows himself. Always has. And he knows that Bucky has a habit of forgetting to eat or shower or change clothes when he’s taking care of someone else -- usually Steve himself. 

Bucky’s mouth twists. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” Steve answers, not bothering with niceties. They’re both supersoldiers, which means they have the same ridiculous metabolism running through their enormous bodies. If Steve’s starving, Bucky has to be, too.

Bucky glares at him, but pulls himself up enough out of his chair to yank his phone out of his pocket. Without removing his hand from Steve’s, Bucky swipes at the screen, presumably texting someone. There’s a soft beep, and then Bucky sets his phone down on the edge of Steve’s bed.

“Fine. I texted Sam,” Bucky says, wrinkling his nose at Steve. “He said he’ll bring me something. _And_ that you’re a stubborn asshole.”

Steve barely has enough energy to laugh, but manages to get one solid giggle out.

***

It’s a week and a half before Dr. Ramírez declares Steve well enough to be moved to one of the residential floors of the building. It’s not exactly his apartment in Brooklyn, but it’s a little homier than the hospital room he’d been stuck in. Much to his surprise, the floor he’s taken to seems to have been built for him specifically, _and_ it seems very lived in for somewhere he’s never stepped foot into before.

Sam pushes him and his wheelchair through the front door, right into the huge living space. Steve blinks at his new surroundings, pleasantly surprised by the warm colors and wood tones. It’s not far off from what he would have picked out himself, if he’d been given the option to decorate the space. 

The couch is huge and wide, all buttery leather and soft-looking throw pillows. A dark grey blanket is thrown over the back of it, wadded up like someone threw it off themselves before getting up. There’s a mug on a side table set atop a few battered novels, and shoes in a sad tumble right by the end of the couch.

“Who…?” Steve asks, nodding towards them.

Sam huffs out a sigh. “Who do you think, Rogers? I mean, really…”

Steve blinks, and then. Of course. Bucky. “Tony let him…?”

Sam moves around the edge of the chair so he can look Steve in the eye while he speaks. “Like Stark could keep Barnes away from you. He didn’t even try, just gave him a key and told him to ask JARVIS for whatever he needed.”

“Oh,” Steve says, itching with the need to get up and explore. He can walk a little more than before, but he gets tired easily. Another thing that will fade with time, but still. It makes daily life a little frustrating. He’ll have to thank Tony later, for putting them up like this. Steve briefly wonders how long the apartment has existed -- when did Tony put aside this space for him? How long has it sat empty, gathering dust?

Steve scratches at his nose, unsure. A quick glance around proves no sign of Bucky anywhere. He makes a soft noise without meaning to, vaguely inquisitive. 

“He’s on a video conference call with Shuri,” Sam says, nodding further into the apartment. “He’ll be done soon, I think.”

“How big is this place?” Steve asks, stretching in his chair to try and see down a hallway.

Sam whistles, low. “Bigger than you two’ll need, that’s for damn sure. There’s a whole gym that way, a small pool. An office. Four or five guest rooms. A master with an ensuite. I don’t even know how many bathrooms,” he shrugs, pushing Steve further into the living room. “You wanna get on the couch?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, softly. He adjusts himself in the chair, getting ready for the transition. Sam gets him and his chair in front of the leather sofa, and lets Steve do the rest. It’s not particularly difficult to lift himself up to mostly standing, and then lower himself down onto the cushions, but it does leave him a bit more breathless than he’d like. If he’d needed a reminder that he was still healing, it’s a good one. “Thanks, Sam,” Steve says, once he’s burrowed deep into the corner of the couch. 

“Yeah, yeah, anytime,” Sam says, waving him off. He moves the wheelchair to the right. Still within reach, but out of the immediate way. “You need anything before I take off?”

Steve thinks for a moment. Normally his answer would be no, but these days it’s a little harder to do things for himself. There’s nothing he can think of, though, that can’t wait until Bucky finishes talking with Shuri. “Nah, I don’t think so,” Steve murmurs, raising his head to look Sam in the eye. “Thanks, though?”

Sam rolls his eyes, then flaps a hand at him. “Take it easy, alright? Doc’s orders. No fighting crime for at least another two months.”

Wrinkling his nose at him, Steve says, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Well, don’t do anything stupid and I won’t have to remind you again.”

Steve makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Yet,” Sam says, raising both eyebrows. “You think I don’t know your pasty white ass well enough by now?”

Steve’s face twists into something complicated. Sam _does_ know him better than anyone (other than Bucky), but it isn’t like Steve plans to divert any bank robberies anytime soon or anything. His plans for the rest of the week involve him getting real familiar with this couch and his Netflix queue. 

“Just...let people take care of you, okay?” Sam says, softer. “You don’t have to worry about anything. We got it covered.”

Logically, Steve knows this to be true. They’ve got a big enough team now that he really doesn’t have to worry about them missing him during fights. He’s got coverage. Someone will take his place. But the guilt still settles over his shoulders like thousand-pound weights. What if someone else got hurt because he wasn't there? What if they needed his mind, his planning abilities? What if, what if, what if…

He blinks, and stares up at Sam for a moment. “Yeah,” Steve says, late. “I know.”

“Well, if you need the reminder, just ask Barnes. He’ll handcuff you to your bed if he has to,” Sam says, with a laugh. 

Now that he absolutely knows is true. Bucky would lock him in his bedroom if it meant protecting him from himself. The thought brings a little laugh out of him. “Yeah, I know,” Steve says, with a slight grin.

“Good,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. He heads towards the door, pausing only to say, “I’m off. Gotta meeting to get to. Text me if you need me or something, alright?” 

Steve nods and waves at him. Sam leaves, closing the door behind him on his way out. Steve sits in silence for a moment, ruminating, before reaching towards the remote and turning the TV on. The last watched channel, is National Geographic. Steve laughs to himself -- of _course_ it’s National Geographic. Bucky and his documentaries, always wanting to learn more about the world they live on. Steve leaves it on, losing himself in the soft voice explaining the various types of South American hummingbirds.

Bucky emerges from a room down the hallway a couple of minutes later. He looks disheveled, clothes wrinkled and ill-fitting, hair a complete mess. But none of that matters, because the moment Bucky realizes Steve’s on the couch, his entire face lights up.

“Steve!” Bucky says, hurrying the last few feet of the hallway to get into the living room. Bucky collapses on the opposite side of the couch, still glowing with happiness. “You’re here!”

“I am!” Steve says, laughing. Bucky’s enthusiasm is infectious. “Sam brought me up a few minutes ago. We didn’t wanna bother you when you were busy with Shuri,” Steve adds, with a smile. “Everything okay?”

Bucky nods, and reaches up to undo his messy bun. Steve watches as he twists his hair back up into something a little neater. “Yeah, she just wanted to know if my arm was still alright or not.” He rotates the aforementioned limb in its metal joint. A soft whirr accompanies the motion. “It’s not bothering me or anything. It’s a helluva lot lighter than the old one, that’s for sure. Less strain.”

“Glad to hear it, Buck,” Steve says, meaning every word. He’s well aware of how much pain the old Soviet arm caused Bucky. It was heavy, and easily damaged. The Wakandan arm was an extreme upgrade, as far as Steve was concerned. Shuri had even made it removable, if Bucky so chose. 

“So,” Bucky starts, looking suddenly anxious. He twists the hem of his shirt in his right hand. “I can be out of your hair in an hour or two if you want me to...”

Steve frowns at him. “What?”

“I mean, this is _your_ apartment, right? You should be able to live in it by yourself if you want…”

“Don’t be an idiot, Barnes,” Steve says, quickly. He talks right over Bucky in order to get him to stop saying stupid shit. On what earth would he ever not want Bucky as near as this, all the time? Bucky living with him was his dream of dreams, really. Only one thing could make it better, and he’s going to work up to that. It’d only be easier if they were living in the same apartment. “There’s more than enough room in this place if Sam wasn’t pullin’ my leg and anyway, I want you here.”

Bucky blinks, mouth still open on an unfinished word. He closes it, and then shakes himself slightly before speaking again. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, like he’s talking to an idiot. He shifts on the couch to better look at Bucky before he says, “I’ve spent enough of my life away from you. I’m done with that.”

If Steve’s not misreading things, hope blooms in Bucky’s eyes. 

“You not gonna get tired of me, are ya?” Bucky asks, lightly teasing. Steve catches a note of seriousness, too. He understands immediately.

“No, Buck. If I haven’t gotten tired of you after 70 years, I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

Bucky flashes a bright smile in his direction. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, echoing the sentiment. Warmth spreads through his limbs. Bucky’s going to stay with him in this apartment. He’ll be close. Steve won’t have to ask him to come over, won’t have to come up with flimsy excuses to see him. It’ll be like when they were young again. Though this time around they won’t _have_ to share a bed unless they really, really want to.

They fall quiet for a minute or two, letting the TV fill the silence with more information about birds. The animals flit across the screen, showing off colorful plumage as they dance through the air. “So what have you been up to?”

Bucky shrugs, gestures to the TV. “Mostly watching stuff. Reading whatever books Stark stocked your library with. Lotta weird stuff in there, but some of it’s good.”

“Weird how?” Steve asks, looking confused.

“Well,” Bucky starts, making a face as he talks. “There’s a lot of really old books? Like Stark thought you wouldn’t be interested in anything younger than _Pride and Prejudice_.”

Steve snorts out a laugh, then wipes a hand over his face. “That sounds like Tony, honestly.” He pauses, then sets his hand back down in his lap. It would be just like him to make sure all they had to read were ancient novels neither of them had ever been interested in. Bucky had never been into those sorts of books. He liked sci-fi and fantasy and things that made his imagination go wild. “You ask JARVIS for newer books?"

Bucky blinks, then shrugs again. “I didn’t want to bother him?”

“JARVIS is a computer, Buck. I don’t think you can bother him.”

“Indeed not, sir,” JARVIS pipes up, voice coming through the speakers cleanly. “Shall I place an order for more recent novels?”

Steve flashes a small smile at Buck, then looks up towards the ceiling. Tony’s told him before that he doesn’t have to -- JARVIS is everywhere in the building, but Steve can’t help it. He likes looking at the person he’s talking to, even if the person is actually an AI. Steve replies, “Order the current top 20 sci-fi or fantasy books, would you please?” He pauses, then adds, “Charge my account.”

“Order placed,” JARVIS says, and then goes quiet.

“Steve! Twenty books?” Bucky immediately says, eyes wide. “That’s too many!”

Steve rolls his eyes, then reaches over to grab at Bucky’s knee. He squeezes it as best he can -- his arm is still in a cast -- and says, “Let me spoil you for the first time ever.”

Bucky chews on his lip, like he’s not sure how to reply to that. He reaches out, though, and rests his palm over Steve’s hand. His skin is warm. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Steve replies, a soft laugh coloring the words. “But I got more money than I could ever conceivably spend, so let me spend it on you.”

Growing up, Bucky had shared everything with Steve. If he ever managed to scrape together ten cents, they’d go to the candy store and get as much as they could with it. They’d go home, dump the bag on Bucky’s bed and end the afternoon in a sugar coma. Once they’d moved out of their parents’ places, they’d moved in together into a shitty, drafty apartment. Steve could hardly rub two nickels together, so Bucky always ended up paying most of the rent. It rankled Steve endlessly -- he wanted to pay his fair share. He wasn’t a freeloader -- but Bucky had never complained about it. He’d only ever told him to pay what he could.

Then when the economy had crashed, Steve _knew_ in his bones that Bucky had stolen medicine just to keep him alive. He’d never been able to prove it, and Bucky had never admitted it, but there was no way they could have afforded it. Not then, not when they were eating potato soup and heels of bread every night just to get by.

So now that Steve has enough money to last several lifetimes, he’s going to use it to buy them everything they’ve never had before. Good books. Good food. Clothes that are warm and comfortable, and hadn’t belonged to two other people before them. He’s going to buy Bucky every sci-fi book ever written if it means Bucky might smile at him more.

After all, Steve knew for certain now that there was a reason behind why they were drawn to each other over and over. They were each other’s match. The Creator himself had told him.

Steve shifts slightly on the couch, and let his head loll back against the cushions. He’s tired again. It seems he’s tired all the time these days. These damn injuries. Steve lets his eyes drift closed for a moment. He could fall asleep right here, and be mostly okay with it. He doesn’t want to sleep -- he wants to keep talking to Bucky, wants to tell him everything he’d learned in those moments he’d been dead. But his mind is already drifting, unable to follow a train of thought for more than a second or two.

“You wanna go to bed?” Bucky asks, softly. “You look worn out.”

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Steve whines, eyes still closed.

“Looks like you don’t have much of a choice, Steve,” Bucky says, laughing. Steve can hear him pull himself up to his feet, and without looking, feels Bucky stand in front of him. “C’mon, I can carry you if you need…”

“I c’n walk,” Steve mumbles, dragging his eyes open. Sure enough, Bucky’s right in front of him, holding both hands out towards him. Steve sets his own hands in Bucky’s and lets himself be dragged up and out of the cushions. 

“Yeah, but for how long?” Bucky asks, raising both eyebrows.

“Long enough,” Steve retorts once he’s on his feet. He turns, and looks down a hallway. He can see it turn at a point far in the distance. Just how big is this place? “Which way’s the bedrooms?”

“This way, c’mon,” Bucky says, nodding down the same hallway. He walks a little ahead, pausing every few seconds to check on Steve’s progress. He’s doing okay, but it’s a little painful to stay on his feet for more than a few minutes. 

It’s a slow, shuffling walk down the hallway, but eventually Bucky nudges a door open. “C’mon, you can take this one,” he says, reaching out and grabbing at Steve’s elbow. Bucky directs him into the room, and helps him climb up into the bed. 

Steve settles back against the pillows, and only then does he actually get a decent view of the room. It’s painted a dark blue color, peaceful and calming. There’s a painting of the Brooklyn bridge directly opposite the bed, with an antique-looking dresser underneath. A floor to ceiling window takes up one wall, proving exactly how high up they are. He knows for a fact that JARVIS can dim the windows, so he’s not worried about the light bothering him. The last thing he notices, mostly because he’s already been deposited on it, is that the mattress is huge -- wide and firm enough that Steve’s sure he’ll actually be able to sleep. He shifts a little against it, testing. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding. “It’s just right.” He’s standing to the right of the bed, hovering a little. Steve looks at him, smiling just slightly. It’s clear Bucky doesn’t want to leave, but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to stay, or if there’d be a good excuse for it. Steve can read him like a book. No, that’s not quite right. They can read _each other_ as easy as anything. He knows it goes both ways. Always has.

Steve huffs out a huge fake sigh, and says, “You wanna stay with me and read or something? I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Let me get my book,” Bucky says, already moving out of the room. 

Steve laughs quietly while he’s gone, covering his mouth with his hand. God. Have they always been this co-dependent, or is it just easier to see now, now that he knows for certain what they are to each other? 

Bucky comes back into the room, holding a heavily dog-eared novel against his chest like a schoolgirl. “Will the light bother you?” he asks, climbing right up into the bed with no hesitation. Bucky adjusts the pillows behind him until he’s propped up nicely.

“Nah,” Steve says, shifting again until he’s comfortable. “Just turn on the lamp there, okay?” Steve says, nodding towards the bedside table. Bucky clicks it on, twists the head of it until it’s more or less pointed at his lap, where his book will be. Steve looks up at the ceiling and asks, “JARVIS, can you dim the window for me, please?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies, as the window fades into something that looks remarkably like a regular wall. The room is considerably darker than it had been before -- perfect for a nap. 

“Thank you,” Steve mutters in reply, eyes already closing again. Sleep comes quickly, but not quick enough. He hears Bucky sigh softly, and feels a warm hand reach out to brush the hair off his forehead. There’s love in the touch, so much love, and it seeps down into his bones to warm him from the inside out.

***

Steve wakes up to a dark room, the lamp on the nightstand turned off. Bucky’s still in bed with him, but the book he’d been reading is face down on his lap, his chin to his chest. He’s snoring softly. Steve looks at him, affection threatening to bubble over. God, how he loves Bucky. He always has. Back before everything, he’d just been too scared to admit it, or just plain stupid enough to pretend it was platonic affection. 

There is nothing platonic about this sort of love. He wants to possess Bucky in every way possible. Wants inside him, wants to hold him safe, wants to kiss every inch of him. Steve closes his eyes, and sighs. He has to tell him. He has to tell him _soon_ or this knowledge is going to eat him alive.

Steve twists in his spot, searching for a clock he knows has to be in the room somewhere. Sure enough, red numbers glow at him from the table on his side. 5:47 am. He blinks at the clock, rubs at one eye, and reads it again. The number ticks over to 5:48 am. Fuck. He’d slept for a lot longer than he’d meant to. He wondered how long Bucky had been asleep for, if he’d even gotten up to eat or anything. Steve huffs out a sigh, and rubs at his face. 

He should get up and eat. Should shower, put on clean clothes, maybe do the stretches that Doctor Ramírez had taught him. A million things slowly add themselves to do his to-do list, but none of them are urgent. 

Steve rolls onto his side and watches Bucky sleep, just for a moment. He reaches out, touches Bucky soft on the cheek. Bucky snuffles in his sleep, turns his face further into Steve’s hand, like a cat looking for pets. Steve smiles, unable to help the burst of love that explodes in his chest. He moves his hand, and copies Bucky from the night before -- brushes at the long tendrils of hair and pushes them behind Bucky’s ear. Steve wants to kiss him right between his eyes, on the tip of his nose, on each cheek.

“Buck -- I gotta tell you somethin’,” Steve says, voice soft as to not startle him.

“Hnn?” Bucky says, opening his eyes slowly, like he’s not keen to give up sleep just yet. But then, once he registers just who’s talking, he’s awake all at once. Bucky sits up a little, looking over Steve with worried eyes. “Steve? You okay?”

Steve nods. His pain is minimal. It’ll get worse once he’s up and about but for right now, he’s good. “I’m fine, I promise, I just… I need to tell you something,” he repeats, with a small smile. It’s suddenly necessary -- absolutely necessary -- that he tell Bucky right now. He needs him to know. Needs him to understand that he feels the same way. Steve’s waited too long.

Bucky scrunches his face up, and Steve can see him look over his shoulder to check the time on the clock. He wrinkles his nose at him. “And it can’t wait until it’s not the asscrack of dawn?”

“No,” Steve says, simply. He feels giddy, like champagne bubbles are tickling the inside of his rib cage. Everything is going to change once he gets this out, once Bucky knows. Everything will change for the better. 

Bucky sighs, like he already knew the answer to his own dumb question. “Okay,” he says, resigned. “What is it?” He slicks a hand through his hair, grunting softly when his fingers get caught on a knot. Steve watches him untangle it, and then smooth it out again with another pass of his hand. Once he has Bucky’s full attention, he starts.

Steve tells him in no uncertain terms what happened to him when his heart stopped beating. He tells him about the white room, the screens playing all the great scenes of his life, about the Creator and all the forms he took. It’s easy to see that Bucky doesn’t quite believe him, that doubt lurks in his eyes. But Steve just keeps talking, keeps explaining and describing what he saw, and soon the misgivings fade away. He supposes its because he finally gets to the part about them being magnets, drawn to each other for all of time. Snapping together, always. It figures that it’s _that_ which makes Bucky believe him. 

“So,” Steve says, finally coming to a close on what he’d seen and done. The room is silent and warm between them. “You see?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, grey eyes watering slightly. “I see,” he says, soft. Bucky reaches out, cups a hand on Steve’s cheek. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the ridge of his cheekbone. “Of course, I see.”

“I’ve loved you since I first saw you, Buck,” Steve says, leaning his face into Bucky’s hand. He turns more, and presses a kiss into Bucky’s palm. “Back when we were kids with missing teeth and scraped knees.”

“And black eyes,” Bucky adds, laughing. Tears are freely streaming down his face now, dripping down his jaw to collect on the collar of his shirt. “You always had black eyes. Could never get you to stop fighting.” He stops for a moment, and turns his eyes up towards the ceiling. Steve can see him muttering to himself for a bit before he says, “And aren’t I glad for it now? You _fought_ , Steve, and you came back.”

“For you,” Steve says, in a whisper. 

“For me,” Bucky says, but the words barely come out audibly. 

Steve surges to close the distance between them, and fits his mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s hand sneaks into his hair, fingers tight against his scalp. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

“Don’t you leave me again,” Bucky says, after they’ve come up for air. He uses his grip in Steve’s hair to shake him slightly, to really enforce the severity of his words

Steve laughs, and the sound’s wet as it leaves his throat. But he nods before promising, “Never.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
